Not By The Book A big bang
by Halcris
Summary: A big explosion in a deserted warehouse, starts off a long and complicated string of puzzling events.


**Not by the Book !**

**BOOM. !**

The normal quietness of the place, down in the poorest dockland area of London, consisting mainly of long-abandoned derelict factories and warehouses, was suddenly shattered by the most enormous explosion in a believed deserted building.

Its few remaining glazed windows were blown out, along with the many boarded-up ones, walls were breached and tumbled, half the roof caved in, and debris littered the surrounding streets.

The nearest residents, a good distance away, were roused from their sleep. Some with long memories, were jolted back to the war years, when bombs rained on London, and especially on the dock area.

'999' was besieged with frantic calls, as further, less violent explosions filled the usually quiet night with frightening sounds and brilliant flashes of light.

Soon all the streets in the area were swarming with vehicles, police cars, red fire-engines, and army lorries. There were even a few ambulances, but these were soon dismissed as not needed, as no casualties were found, nor expected, in an area normally so deserted and empty.

Needless to say, the story made the morning papers, with one or two pictures gained by intrepid reporters, quick on the up-take, who had rushed to the scene.

Bodie read it with interest, in the paper he had picked up on his way into work. He showed it to his partner, Doyle, as they climbed out of their adjacently parked cars in the yard at C.I.5 Headquarters, and made their way into the building.

It was still in his hand, as they were called to report in, and made their way along the corridor to enter the office of their boss, Cowley.

Bodie waved it cheerfully. "Anything in this for us ?," he enquired.

"Not yet," replied Cowley, "I have received only a basic report, but I will get more information later, I have no doubt."

He dismissed it for the present, and went on to give his top team more detailed orders about specific enquiries he wanted made about a suspected imminent 'drugs drop'.

So the pair were kept busy all day, investigating various sources, and talking to a great many people.

But late afternoon, when they returned to base and submitted their neatly compiled reports on their findings to Cowley, it was a different story.

"That explosion," began their boss, reading from a paper in his hand,

"Apparently it destroyed the main part of a large cache of arms, mostly small arms, pistols, rifles, machine-guns, small mortars, grenades, and even, they think, a fair amount of explosive material."

"It must have been the heck of a bang," commented Bodie, almost gleefully.

"Must have shaken the neighbourhood," added Doyle.

"But," continued Cowley, "What interests me, is that although the bomb squad, who dealt with making things safe, managed to salvage quite a lot of stock untouched, no legitimate arms dealer has come forward to claim it."

"So I wonder who it belonged to ?, " exclaimed Bodie.

"Indeed," replied Cowley.

"Somebody who is pretty 'hopping mad'," commented Doyle.

"What do you mean ?," asked Bodie, turning a puzzled face to his mate.

"Well, someone has lost a huge amount of money," explained Doyle. "If it was legitimate, they would be claiming what was left and shouting for insurance money."

"Legitimate dealers would insure their stuff wouldn't they ?," he asked his boss.

"Yes," replied Cowley, "most of them do, I'm sure."

"A dodgy dealer, then," said Bodie. A sudden idea shot into his head and brought a grin to his face.

"Might it be Malmerston ?," he exclaimed, "Oh, I do hope it is, It would serve him right."

Owen Malmerston had been a thorn in the side of both the police and C.I.5 for some time now. They were absolutely sure he was behind most of the organised crime in London and the surrounding area but like so many villains they encountered, he was one who was extremely clever at covering his tracks and keeping his name out of things.

He lived in a big house in Chelsea, and had a very opulent social life. He was frequently to be seen in the most notorious and expensive night-clubs, many of which he owned, though not under his own name, of course.

He was also a race-goer, and owned several good animals, who won races frequently and added to his wealth.

There were always rumours and suspicions about 'fixed' results, and dubious back-street betting, when his horses were involved. But nothing was ever proved, and he and they continued to flourish, along with many close followers and 'hangers on'.

His closest contacts were two prominent businessmen, Don Frampton and Marcus Corelli. It was thought that they were the ones who organised most of the criminal activities, under strict direction from Malmerston. But again, proof was never found, in spite of extensive painstaking enquiries.

But for the moment it was not Cowley's concern. He produced a list of several names of people he wanted his top team to talk to, regarding the suspected drugs drop.

But as they left to get on with it, he added an extra word.

"Bodie," he said, "it might be worth your while to try and have a word with your friend Martell. If anyone knows anything, it's most likely he will."

Martell was an old friend of Bodie's, ostensibly a legitimate arms dealer, though there were aspects of his life and business that Bodie forbore to enquire about. They maintained a good working relationship most of the time, as Martell often heard and passed on information that proved useful.

So the following afternoon found the pair of them on the Woolwich ferry, a favourite 'office' for the ever-cautious Martell.

He greeted them cheerfully. "I can guess what you've come about," he said briskly. "The 'big bang', yes."

The pair nodded.

"Whose stuff was it ?," asked Bodie. "Malmerston's, I hope."

"Of course it was Malmerston's," replied Martell with a wide smile. "Nobody else would handle such a big mixed cache. He's not admitting it, naturally, but we all know it's his stuff."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," said Bodie, almost smirking, and got an answering grin.

Malmerston was far from popular among legitimate traders, and many were secretly gloating over what had happened.

"I've heard that he's mad as hell about it," continued Martell, "and is taking his temper out on all about him, and trying to find someone to blame."

"Charming chap," commented Doyle.

But as yet he had nothing more to tell them.

"I'll contact you if I hear anything else," said Martell. They parted company amicably, and the pair returned to base, having quite enjoyed their short trip on the river.

The incident occupied the media for several days. There was much speculation about what had happened, and even more about the mystery of why the untouched items, which although only a small fraction of the whole cache, were still of considerable value, had not been claimed.

But Cowley was quite content to leave any investigating to the police. As yet there was nothing to involve C.I.5's attention.

Over the next few days, the local authorities took over the task of dealing with the situation.

The men from the army took the remaining arms away and bestowed them safely in a secure armoury.

The police tried hard to find the legitimate owner of the now-useless property, with little success, for the only name they could find was that of a man who had died years ago without anyone named to take it over.

The local council got contractors in to make the building safe and to fence it off. Plans were considered to demolish it totally in due course.

So it gradually faded from the main headline news, and the area returned to its normal quiet state and ceased to be the subject of conversation and speculation.

But although normal peace and silence had returned to this area, it was not so in other parts of the city.

Rumours began to circulate of dissension between Malmerston and his two chief allies. Fierce discussions and even rows were overheard, and frequent raised voices and slammed doors were reported, gloated over by those who feared and hated Malmerston.

And it was noticed that the trio no longer appeared together in the usual social circles.

Malmerston, although he still had not admitted it openly, had suffered a severe setback and a huge financial loss, and, angry, bad-tempered man that he was, was desperately seeking someone to blame and call to account.

Not that there was anyone to blame. Intensive work done by the army bomb squad had revealed no positive answers, only the faint possibility that defective explosive material might have been the cause. As they explained, some types of that could he very volatile and unstable if not kept in the best conditions.

The rumours of 'mutiny in the ranks' of the Malmerston empire continued. Marcus Corelli, especially, was very disgruntled at continually feeling the

brunt of most of Malmerston's anger.

Hot-blooded, as many of his race, he was frequently heard ranting against the injustice of it. His nearest friends had also heard him considering the possibility of packing it all in and going back to Italy.

"It would serve him right," he'd been heard to mutter, "and I wouldn't go quietly," seemed to be an added threat.

The criminal underworld waited, listened and bided its time. Sometimes the 'fallouts' in the top circles brought bonuses or advantages to those further down the line. So many were poised, ready to jump in if a good opportunity came their way.

But then something happened which changed the whole scenario !

Marcus Corelli was murdered !

Late one night, under dark moonless cover, someone unknown and unseen, carefully put a bomb under the big black Mercedes parked outside Corelli's home.

Early next morning, running late for an important meeting, Corelli had hurried out, climbed swiftly into his big car, turned the key in the ignition, and started to move off.

The resulting explosion rocked the whole street, and scattered debris far and wide.

Startled neighbours rushed out and gazed aghast at the fierce blaze., but there was nothing anybody could do.

Needless to say, the news spread rapidly. It made all the London papers, highlighted with some, probably faked, lurid pictures of burning cars.

Speculation as to who was responsible, was rife. But prolific police investigation produced no result. Corelli had been a pretty ruthless man and had plenty of enemies bearing grudges. And of course, there was always the Mafia connection to be considered.

There were several who considered Malmerston as a possible suspect, as the two were known to have fallen out recently. Not that he would have done it personally, of course, but he did have ample means to pay the culprit. But as usual, there was a total absence of proof.

The funeral of Marcus Corelli was a lavish and well-attended event.

Mourners came from all over London and from further afield also. There were even some representatives flown in from his Italian home town of Milan.

Cowley had chosen one of his most Italian-looking agents to mingle with the lesser attendees, and to bring him a report on who was there. He had produced a long list of names, many of which C.I. 5 already knew from their somewhat dubious criminal connections.

He showed the list to Bodie and Doyle when they reported in the following morning. They also recognised most of the names, remembering petty criminals they had encountered over the years.

But one set of names grabbed Bodie's attention. "I see the Mortinelli's were out in force," he exclaimed, "Eduardo, Dino and both the girls."

"Isn't their club called Corelli's," commented Doyle.

He was correct. Corelli's was a very expensive and exclusive night-club run by the Mortinelli family. Cowley had his suspicions about many of its most regular patrons, who included Malmerston and his cronies. But for the time being he was just content to keep them under light surveillance.

"They are probably related in some way," said Cowley, "Corelli is quite a common family name, especially those with Mafia connections. They are most likely some very far-distant cousins."

He turned to his desk and picked up a paper. "But for the time being it is not our concern. This is more important."

Time passed and things settled down. Malmerston continued with his usual dubious activities, seemingly managing just as well with only one confederate.

On the surface all seemed to be all right. He and Frampton were seen together in public and appeared to be on amiable enough terms.

But behind the scenes, this was far from so !

Ian Frampton was a very unhappy man ! He was still working with Malmerston, following his orders and doing the work for some of their most profitable schemes.

But Malmerston was constantly on his back, checking what he was doing, and querying pernickety little details. It was fast getting on Frampton's nerves. He was losing sleep and not eating well.

Minor errors were creeping into his work, and these brought the full force of Malmerston's temper down upon him. Bearing this alone, now that Corelli had gone, he began to understand why the Italian had got fed up with it and complained so bitterly.

And then the doubts began to creep in !

He had up till then ignored the wild rumours and speculations bandied about which had suggested that Malmerston was behind Corelli's death.

But now he began to think about it a bit more.

Divorced long ago from a childless marriage, Frampton lived alone. He had a house-keeper, or rather he employed a woman who came in daily to take care of the house and to cook him meals as required. But she didn't live in and their conversations were fleeting. She certainly wasn't a confidante.

He and Corelli had talked together frequently, sharing their grumbles and grievances, but now that the man was gone, Frampton had lost the relief of that outlet. He had no-one to talk to, and spent many evenings alone at home, brooding in solitude. And he was become more and more neurotic about the situation.

In his last days, Corelli had been quite vociferous in his grumbling. He had expressed himself quite audibly in public. He had even hinted that he was thinking of taking drastic action, of splitting up with Malmerston, of leaving London, and even, extremely foolishly, he talked of getting his own back by informing on him.

Had Malmerston heard about it, and taken preventive action ?

Frampton knew that the man was completely ruthless. He'd seen plenty of evidence of it over the years he had known him. And daily his suspicions were increasing.

The fear began to grow and escalate. Was he next ? Would Malmerston find some subtle way to arrange an untraceable 'accident' for him ?

As the days wore on, he fretted more and more. If there had been anyone close to him, they would have realised by now that the man was at the end of his tether. In fact, he was fast headed for a nervous breakdown.

And that didn't help in his daily work, of course. Errors began to creep in more and more, and that brought the full wrath of Malmerston down upon him.

Nearly every day he got yelled at about something.

The final straw came when a slight error in some numbers caused the loss of a sale.

Malmerston ranted and raved at him. The loss was only minimal, but he behaved as if Frampton had cheated him of a fortune.

As he stormed out of the office, slamming the door, he threw some last words at the man cowering in his office chair.

"You're a useless idiot !," he bellowed, "I'd be better off without you !."

Frampton quailed at the fury directed towards him. For a moment he felt frozen, unable to move.

Then panic grabbed him. He shot out of his chair, grabbed his coat and his car keys, and rushed out of his office. Not waiting for the lift, he pelted furiously down the stairs, almost falling down the last flight.

He shot into his car, fumbled the key into the lock, turned the ignition, and left the car park at an extremely dangerous speed.

All the way home, those deadly words rang in his head.

"I'd be better off without you".

That's what Malmerston had shouted.

He's going to kill me, I know it, thought Frampton and his panic increased with every mile he travelled.

By the time he reached his home and dashed indoors, slamming and locking the door behind him, he was almost hysterical with fear.

Cowley laid down his pen, pushed the papers spread before him into some sort of order, tucked them into the red folder, and closed it.

He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. He'd put in several tiring hours on this, and made little progress. He struggled to his feet, and moved slowly across to the cabinet where his precious bottle was housed.

I've earned this one, he thought, as he poured himself a neat dram of his favourite malt scotch.

He returned to his seat, savouring it gently, only to be interrupted by the sudden shrilling of his desk phone.

Laying down the glass, he reluctantly reached for the handset. This had better be important, he thought to himself.

The voice of the man on the switchboard came through, with a slightly apprehensive tone.

"Sir," he said, "There's a man on the line demanding to speak to you."

"His name ?," queried Cowley wearily.

He won't give it," replied the operator, "says he'll only talk to you. It's a matter of life or death. He sounds hysterical, sir, really wild."

For a moment Cowley was tempted to order the man to cut the call, but then his curiosity overcame his tiredness.

"Put him through," he said.

The next voice he heard was almost a shriek, as the man gave his name at last.

"It's Don Frampton, Cowley. You've got to help me," it shouted, "He's going to kill me ! I know it."

Cowley thought quickly. The man was clearly hysterical. There was no way he was going to get a sensible conversation from him.

So he lowered his voice and spoke soothingly, as if to a frightened child.

"Calm down Mr. Frampton", he said. "I'll get you help. Are you at home ?."

"Yes," came a scared whisper. "What shall I do.?"

"Lock your doors and answer to no-one till we reach you," ordered Cowley, and put the phone down.

He put in a quick call for his car. Then grabbing his coat, he shot down the corridor to the duty room to see which agents were available.

He found Barton, one of his best men there, with Maxwell, a younger, newer man. He was helping him to write up a report on an enquiry they had been making together.

"Come with me," he ordered brusquely, and both men jumped to their feet.

They followed him into the lift, as it took them down to ground level.

On the way Cowley called to enquire which safe house was available, and also put in a summons for their own medical man to meet them there. It sounded as if he would need his assistance.

It didn't take them very long to reach the posh house where Frampton lived.

Cowley parked his as close to the door as he could. He climbed out quickly, closely followed by the two now very curious agents he had picked up.

He rang the bell and tapped on the door.

He was met by a hoarse yell. "Who is it ? Go away !."

Cowley sighed. This was going to be difficult. The man had clearly 'lost it'. The best they could do for him would be to get him to a 'safe house' and under medical care.

Trying to speak as calmly as he could, he opened the letter-box. "It's Cowley," he said, "you asked me to help you."

"How do I know it's not a trick ?," came the agitated reply.

"It's not," said Cowley placatingly. "Look, you've got a 'spy-hole'. I'll hold my I.D. up to that so you can see it."

He quickly did as he had said. There was a short pause. Then he was rewarded by the sound of bolts being drawn, and a key turned in the lock. The door eased open inch by inch. The figure that presented itself was a weird one.

It was Frampton, but barely recognisable because he had his jacket over his head and pulled close to hide his face.

Cowley re-acted quickly. This was no time for gentle niceties.

"Get him in the car !," he ordered, and his two agents responded at once.

Frampton was no match for Barton's strength. He stepped forward and grabbed him firmly. Maxwell had the car door open in a flash as the tall agent bundled the terrified wreck of a man into the back of the big car.

Cowley pulled the door shut, shot down the steps and into the driver's seat, faster than he had moved for quite a long time.

They had a fair way to go to reach the chosen 'safe house', but Frampton gave them no trouble. He cowered down in the back seat, flanked by the two watchful agents, with his jacket still over his head, and muttered quietly to himself. But, although they listened carefully, nothing he said made any sense.

Finally, they reached their destination, a quiet detached bungalow in a small residential estate.

Frampton made no resistance as the burly Barton almost carried him in through the door, opened for them by their medical man, Dr. Thornton. He took one look at his prospective patient and directed them through to the back bedroom.

Barton helped the man to lie down on the bed. The doctor shooed them all out of the room, as he made a quick examination of the now almost comatose man.

Moments later, he emerged to report to Cowley. "He's in quite a state," he said., "Have you been threatening him ?."

"No, indeed," protested Cowley instantly. "He's worked himself up to that level, absolutely scared to death of someone."

"I've given him a very strong sedative," went on the doctor, "He should sleep for at least twelve hours, if not more, but just how he'll be when he does wake up, I can't tell you yet."

Cowley thanked him as he collected his bag and coat and prepared to leave.

"I'll come back late morning to see how he is," the doctor said, "but I have to suggest that you don't attempt to question him straight away. Give him time to settle and calm down. He's in a very precarious mental state."

Cowley nodded, accepting and valuing the man's advice. He saw him out, 'then returned to give his orders to the two waiting agents.

"You two can take the night watch here," he began, "It won't be too demanding as he's 'out of it'. I'll send you a relief team as soon as I can in the morning."

The following day passed very quietly. True to his word Cowley sent in two others to relieve Barton and Maxwell, much to their relief, as they had actually worked a double shift, albeit not a very demanding one.

Frampton remained in his drugged sleep till almost mid-day. He was just awake when the doctor called again. He talked to him gently for a while, then put in his report to Cowley.

"He's a lot better," he began, "He has calmed down a lot, though he's still not completely stable. I should allow him a quiet day's rest before you even attempt to question him. He's still close to the edge, and could relapse so easily."

Cowley took the man's advice and told the men on duty to handle their charge very carefully.

Sensible men, they did their best to comply, speaking gently to the man and not coercing him in any way.

Frampton was very quiet all day. He ate fairly well of the meals offered to him, replied shortly if spoken to, but volunteered nothing.

He spent a lot of his time just lying on the bed, staring into space. But he showed no signs of behaving violently.

So all three had a very quiet day.

Later in the evening, Barton and Maxwell returned to take on the night watch. Cowley wasn't entirely happy with one of his best men being on such a task, but he had been told by the doctor that familiar faces would be less disturbing to Frampton than new ones. And as it would probably be for only one more night, he let it go.

…..

Bodie rolled into the yard at C.I.5's headquarters, and parked his car neatly. He glanced idly at the other vehicles to see If his partner was in yet, but there was no sign of Doyle's car. I've beaten him to it this morning, he thought to himself.

He turned into the rest room, and was just about to scrounge a 'cuppa' from those already there, when he heard Cowley's voice bellowing his name. He shot along the corridor, tapped on the door and was called in.

Cowley was busy sorting out papers on his desk. He glanced up, and saw that his agent was alone.

"Where's Doyle ?," he demanded.

"Doesn't seem to be in yet," responded Bodie.

"Would be late this morning," grumbled Cowley. "I want the pair of you to go and bring Frampton into the interrogation Centre. I think it's time I had a little talk with him."

"I'll go and hurry him up," responded Bodie quickly.

He stepped out into the corridor, whipped out his RT and thumbed his partner's number. No response ! Odd, he thought, must be in the car. He tried that number, and again it 'beeped' but wasn't answered.

He went back to Cowley "I can't raise Doyle," he reported.

"Did you have a heavy night last night," queried Cowley angrily.

"No, he went straight home when we knocked off," replied Bodie, "said he had things to do."

Cowley was annoyed. He was anxious to get on with interviewing Frampton.

"I can't wait for him," he said crossly. "You need two for such a pick-up." That's in the book, thought Bodie.

"Who is in ?," demanded Cowley.

"Jax, I think, and Wilson," replied Bodie, trying to remember who he had glimpsed.

"Take Jax, then," ordered Cowley brusquely, "and get on with it."

Bodie shot back along the corridor, and collected Jax, explaining to him, as he hurried the man down to his car.

"Wonder where Doyle is ?," mused Jax, as they set off at speed.

"I've no idea," replied Bodie, "He'll get a rocket when he does turn up. Cowley doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Although they were well into the rush hour, they made pretty good time, owing to Bodie's driving skill. They pulled up outside the safe house and climbed out leaving the door open for easy access.

They walked up to the door and Bodie rang the bell. There was a moment's delay, and then the door was opened by the younger agent, Maxwell. He looked totally surprised to see them.

"We've come to collect Frampton," said Bodie easily, "Cowley's ready to have a little chat with him."

To his surprise Maxwell looked at him completely blankly.

"But Doyle collected him last night," he said in a bemused tone

"What ?," exclaimed Bodie.

"But you know," went on Maxwell, "you were in the car."

"I was not," Bodie almost shouted, "What on earth are you talking about ?"

Barton came through from the kitchen. "What's going on ?," he asked.

"Bodie's come for Frampton," explained the younger man in a totally puzzled tone.

It was Barton's turn to look bemused. "But your mate picked him up last night," he said.

"It's the first I've heard of it," exclaimed Bodie. He whipped out his RT.

"Get me Cowley fast," he snapped. As soon as he was put through, he told his boss what he had found.

"What ?," exclaimed Cowley disbelievingly. "I didn't send him."

"Well, Frampton isn't here," said Bodie.

Astounded by the news, Cowley thought for a moment, then issued brisk orders.

"Bring Barton and Maxwell back here as fast as you can," he snapped. "Tell them to be ready to give me every detail of what happened."

How many times Bodie broke the speed limit on the way back, nobody was counting. All three of them were deep in their own thoughts.

Barton and Bodie were friends, so he was dying to ask him what was wrong, but the grim look on Bodie's face daunted him. He decided to hold off, at least until his friend was no longer driving as if the devil were after him.

When they shot into Cowley's office, they found he had made preparations.

He had two hard-back chairs set facing his desk. He waved Barton and Maxwell into them.

"Sit there," he ordered, "Take several deep breaths and concentrate. Be ready to tell me every detail you can remember."

He turned to Bodie, who was looking very disturbed.

"You go and sit by the window, and do not interrupt. Understand ?." he said.

Bodied nodded and obeyed. As Cowley knew, his mind was in a turmoil.

What had his partner done and why ?

Cowley retreated to his seat behind his desk, and gestured to Maxwell that he was ready to start.

The young agent, hands tightly gripped in front of him, sat up vey straight on the hard-backed chair and began his story.

"It was getting late, so I asked Frampton if he was ready to go to bed, and he said yes he was. Barton went into the kitchen to make us all some cocoa. The doorbell rang, so I went to answer. I looked through the 'spy-hole'. It was rather dark for the porch light seemed to have failed, but I could see the curly hair and the red, black and white jacket Doyle so often wears, and he was holding up his I.D. So I opened the door. He moved in quickly, almost pushing past me.

'Cowley wants to talk to Frampton urgently', he said. He entered the lounge, grabbed hold of Frampton and hurried him out into the passage and towards the door. I could see the car outside. I recognized it. I like cars. Both doors were open. There was someone sitting in the back. I thought it was Bodie. As he hassled Frampton out of the door and down the steps, he said something else. 'Your orders are to hang on here, I'll be bringing him back later'. Then he almost pushed Frampton into the car, closed the door, shot into the front seat, and drove off at speed."

He relaxed slightly, leaning back in his seat. "That's

exactly what happened, sir," he said.

Cowley had been listening carefully, as he sat back, fingers steepled, his gaze intent on the young agent before him. As he was such a shrewd judge of character, he fully believed that Maxwell was being totally truthful as he saw it.

He turned to the senior man.

"It's just as Maxwell has told you," Barton began, "I was in the kitchen making the cocoa. When the doorbell rang, I was in the act of pouring hot water into the mugs. By the time I had put the kettle down safely and moved out of the kitchen, Doyle was already at the doorway, pushing Frampton before him. I did hear what he said about hanging on at the safe house till he brought him back. I saw the car too, and recognised it. We were waiting for him to come back. When he didn't come, I thought perhaps Frampton was being more difficult than you expected."

He threw a quick glance towards Bodie and was rather startled by the grim look on his friend's face.

"I don't understand, sir," he said. "Is something wrong ?."

"Yes, Barton," replied Cowley, "Something is very wrong. For a start, I didn't send Doyle ! And now both he and Frampton have totally disappeared."

It took a few seconds for the importance of that to sink into Barton's mind. Suddenly he understood Bodie's agitation, and his grim look. He must be worried sick. For, on the surface, it looked as if Doyle had gone 'rogue', and helped a criminal escape.

You are sure it was Doyle?," demanded Cowley.

"I thought it was," answered Barton slowly, "He's very recognisable."

"Very true," agreed Cowley, and his expression was as grim as Bodie's.

Bodie was sent to return Barton and Maxwell to the safe house, to collect their belongings, close up and pick up Barton's car.

Anything to keep the man busy, thought Cowley to himself, to stop him doing something stupid, to give him time to calm down and think rationally.

Meanwhile, he got on with the unpleasant things that had to be done. He had an APB put out on Doyle and his car. He contacted all other agents to report instantly any sightings or information.

He had felt bad when Barry Martin had let him down, but this was even worse. Doyle was the last man he would have imagined would go 'rogue'. He found it very hard to believe. But what other interpretation could be put on what two reliable men had told him ?

Doyle came to himself slowly. He lay still for a moment, eyes closed, letting his other senses help him assess his situation. They told him that he was lying flat on his back on a wooden floor, that he was alone, and that he didn't seem to be restrained in any way.

Heartened by this, he opened his eyes, and went to sit up. The pain that shot through his left arm and shoulder almost sent him back into oblivion again. He laid still and took a few deep breaths, until he felt a bit better. Using his right hand, he felt gently to try to assess the damage. It felt as if his shoulder had been dislocated and violently too, judging by the pain even the lightest touch caused. He also realised that he was without his jacket with all its useful accessories, and that his gun and its holster were missing too.

He thought back, trying to recall how he had got into this state. He at once remembered parking his car and walking towards his flat. Then he had been set upon by a group of thugs. Two or three he might have handled, but half a dozen or more was too heavy odds. He recalled them pulling him about, and then a heavy blow to the head had finished the unequal battle.

What's my next move, he thought to himself ? I'm injured, so not at my best, but at least I am free to move Slowly and carefully, he rolled over to his right side, eased himself up to a sitting position, and looked about him.

He appeared to be in a large wooden hut. Not a shed, for it had a couple of windows letting in daylight. Maybe a beach hut, he mused ? But where ? Not in London, that's for sure.

He shuffled over towards the door. The handle would help him get to his feet. It did, and glancing through one of the windows confirmed his earlier thought, for it showed him a sandy beach, and some gently rolling waves, some way off.

But as he grasped the handle, he felt it give under his hand. The door wasn't locked ! He opened it quickly and stepped out into the fresh air.

With his right hand, he lifted his limp left wrist and looked at his watch. It showed 12. 30. Well it wasn't night, so it must be mid-day.

He looked round about him, and discovered that his hut was the third one in a long row. But all of them looked dull and deserted, with no sign of life. And there was no-one on the empty beach, only a few sea-gulls.

Is this because it is well past the end of the summer season, he pondered, or is it because these huts are no longer used and abandoned ?

He let his gaze wander further, and spotted a path leading up the slope of the low hill ridge that sheltered the huts.

His heart leapt when he saw what stood at the top end of the path, large and red, a telephone box !

Can I make it that far, he wondered, and will it be working if I do ? Well, I've got to try, haven't I ?

Cradling his useless arm with his other hand, he began a slow and slightly unsteady walk, first over rough pebbles, then onto the smoother path, rising gently upwards towards his target. It wasn't easy. He felt very unsteady and had to stop frequently to take a rest. But the will to survive drove him on.

At last he made it to the top of the slope. But as he looked at the red box before him, his heart sank. It looked as if it had been vandalised. The inside had been liberally sprayed with black paint, obliterating all the notices. What were the chances that the phone was still working ?

He had to find out, so he pulled on the handle to open the door. Why are phone-box doors always so strong, he thought to himself ? It took almost all his failing strength to drag it open. He managed it at last and slipped inside, leaning heavily on the side wall to recover.

His head was swimming and his shoulder felt on fire. I'm going to pass out soon, he thought. With a last despairing effort, he reached for the receiver. The relief that swept through him as he heard the dialling tone was enormous. The phone had clearly been repaired, before the other damage was tackled.

He cradled the receiver between his neck and his good shoulder, and with trembling fingers, used the special code known to all C.I 5 agents, and called into base. A voice answered.

"Doyle, - I need help," he gasped.

The male operator was quick on the uptake. He knew Bodie was still in the main office, so he rapidly switched it through to him

. "Doyle?," Bodie's voice was almost a shout. "Where are you ?."

"I don't know," whispered Doyle, almost at the end of his tether.

"Stop being stupid," snapped Bodie. "You're in a phone box, the information is there."

There was no response. It was taking all Doyle's remaining strength just to stay conscious.

Bodie was really shouting now. "A number on the dial. Tell me !."

Obediently, Doyle slowly read it out.

"Now, on the wall in front of you. What does it say?," demanded Bodie fiercely.

"Not much, black paint," mumbled Doyle. He was fast losing it. He picked at a bit of the flaking paint, and it flicked away, revealing part of a place name.

"Field," he said weakly, "something field."

"Find the rest of it," snapped Bodie.

"Sorry, can't," was the final whispered reply, as the black receiver slipped from his hold to dangle uselessly.

Doyle slumped against the wall, and slid slowly down, to lie in an unconscious heap on the hard floor.

"Ray," shouted Bodie, "Ray, answer me !."

But his pleas fell on deaf ears. Doyle had done all he could manage.

Cowley had come in, just in time to hear most of the rather one-sided conversation.

His extremely good organising skills put the necessary work into action. The number and the part name that Bodie had, were immediately fed into a computer, and the excellent co-operation of the Post office engineers sped the work, aided by the fact that the line was still open, due to the dangling receiver in the now silent phone box.

Bodie kept the line open, and called his partner's name frequently down it, hoping for further response, but was continually disappointed.

Sometime later, he dashed into Cowley's office, barely taking time to knock.

"They've found it," he said excitedly, "A box just outside a tiny holiday village called Mayfield, on the south coast. I'm ready to go there."

"Just a minute, Bodie," said Cowley, in a steady calm tone. "You can't go alone. A 'pick-up' requires a team, according to the rule book."

Bodie, almost on his way out of the door, swung round with a puzzled look.

"Sir ?," he queried, " to fetch Doyle.?"

"May I remind you," replied Cowley firmly, "that until we find out what Doyle has done and why, this is an official 'pick-up', an arrest Take someone with you."

Rather stunned by this, Bodie hurried from the room. He had been so excited by hearing his partner's voice, that he had forgotten that his mate was under serious suspicion.

He hurried along the corridor to the rest room, and was pleased to find Jax there. It would be nice to have him along. He was a quiet calm man, who wouldn't pester him with questions or idle chatter.

As they went down to the car, he explained the explained the situation', and handed him the map he had collected.

"South out of London to start with," he said, "give you time to work out the best route for me. The office will help you, for it's only a tiny place, called Mayfield, at the back of beyond by the sound of it."

In spite of all the helpful directions, it took them some time to get to their destination.

As Bodie pulled the car to a stop outside the box, he noticed a bicycle leaning against it.

This was quickly explained, as a police constable came out of the box and approached the car. He leaned towards the window, as Bodie opened it.

"Your man was found a couple of hours ago," he said, "by a lady walking her dog."

"He's been taken to the Cottage Hospital, a few miles away," the man went on, "and I've been sent to give you directions on how to get there."

Bodie listened eagerly to what the constable told him. It had been a long drive and now he was very anxious to find his mate and talk to him.

Half-an hour later, he was pulling up outside the Cottage Hospital. He parked the car neatly, and he and Jax hurried to the entrance and went in.

They were directed to a small office. As they knocked and entered, a man in a white coat rose from behind the desk and came forward to greet them.

He introduced himself as Dr. Miles."I understand you are here about our mystery patient," he began. "Perhaps you can fill in some details for me."

"Yes, indeed, Dr. Miles," replied Bodie, "His name is Raymond Doyle, and he's one of our agents." He went on to give their names and to explain who they were.

"What is his condition, doctor ?," Bodie asked eagerly, "and can we speak to him urgently ?"

"I'm afraid you will have to wait a bit," answered the doctor. "He has only just come out of surgery, and won't wake up for a while."

Surgery ?. Bodie didn't like the sound of that, but the doctor went on to explain further.

"He had a dislocated shoulder, but we've just put that back. However, there is also considerable ligament damage, which will be both very painful and slow to heal. He will need a bit of physiotherapy to help that. He also has a head injury, and possibly concussion. We won't know about that till he wakes up.".

Bodie was relieved. It didn't sound quite as bad as he had first feared.

But it left him with a bit of a dilemma. He drew Jax to one side to discuss it with him.

"Technically," he began, "Doyle is under arrest. Which means that, playing it 'by the book', one of us must be with him, not that it sounds as if he's fit to run off anywhere."

He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment, and then continued. "Here's what I suggest we do," he said. "I spotted an inn about three miles down the road. I'll go there, get something to eat, and report in to Cowley. When I know what he says, I'll come back here and tell you. I can't see us taking him back to London tonight, can you ?."

"No," agreed Jax, "I don't think the doctor would sanction it."

So Bodie told the doctor where he was going and set off.

Jax found a seat just outside the room where Doyle was, and gratefully accepted an offered cup of tea.

This was a very unusual situation. He liked Doyle very much, and didn't want to believe that he had turned 'rogue'.

But, as Bodie had said, they had to play it exactly by the book, or they would have to answer to their boss.

An hour or so later, Bodie was back. He glanced into the room, but could see that Doyle wasn't yet awake, so he turned to Jax.

"Cowley wasn't best pleased," he reported. That was actually a bit of an understatement. Their boss was in quite a mood, almost shouting at him.

In fact, Cowley's anger was not at his agents, who were doing their best. He was battling with himself, because he was so unwilling to believe ill of Doyle, who he had always considered one of his best men.

Bodie relayed the orders barked at him. "I've booked a room at the inn," he said, "You are to go there, have a meal and get some sleep. I'll take over here."

Jax nodded.

"Unless I suddenly call you," continued Bodie, "You settle up, and report back here, as early as you can in the morning. We have to take him back tomorrow, whatever condition he is in,"

Both faces were rather grim as they considered what this might imply.

Jax brought in some items from the car at Bodie's request, then set off for the inn. I'm getting the easy part, he thought to himself. I don't envy Bodie the task of talking to Doyle when he does eventually wake up.

Bodie insisted on moving a comfortable chair into Doyle's room and settled himself into it. When the doctor protested, Bodie explained.

"Technically," he said, "he's our prisoner, and has to be guarded."

The doctor looked startled. "What's he done ?," he exclaimed.

"Sorry, classified," replied Bodie.

"Is he dangerous ?," queried the doctor, "my staff ?."

Bodie hurried to re-assure the concerned man. "He won't be any trouble," he said, "I'll see to that, and we'll be taking him off your hands tomorrow."

"Oh," said the doctor in surprise, "I' m not sure he'll be fit to travel."

Bodie didn't respond. He'll be coming back to London with us, fit or not, he thought to himself, to 'face the music'.

He couldn't bear to sit close to the bed, to stare at that so familiar face, so he pushed his chair back against the wall, to stare out of the window instead. Not that there was anything to see, as it was now dark outside. He'd hoped it would distract him from the thoughts that were whirring round in his head.

What had made Doyle do this ? Was he to blame somehow ? Had his mate got fed up with working with him, and decided to 'cut and run'. Maybe Frampton had made him an offer he couldn't refuse, more money than he could earn with C.I.5.

He didn't like to think these thoughts about the partner he had got to know so well. But what other answer was there ?

A nurse kept popping in and out, to have a look at the figure in the bed.

"You don't need to keep an eye on him," suggested Bodie, "I'm doing that."

"Doctor's orders," replied the nurse. "he's going to need pain-killers as soon as he wakes. That shoulder is going to be very painful for quite some time, I'm afraid. I'm ready to give them to him." Bodie understood and nodded.

He tilted his chair back against the wall, and tried to relax. He was tired, mostly by the mental stress of the situation.

He'd almost dropped off, and came to with a start, to see the nurse tending to her patient. She had raised the head of the bed, and with a glass of water, was helping him to take the painkillers the doctor had prescribed.

He heard Doyle murmur thanks, as she tidied the covers around him.

He waited till she had cleared up and left, then went over to stand by the bed.

Doyle, rather pale-faced, was lying with his eyes closed, waiting for the pills to take effect. But when Bodie spoke his name, his eyes flicked open at once.

"Bodie," he exclaimed, sounding pleased to see him, "You found me."

"Yes," responded Bodie shortly. His partner sounded so normal. He had expected some feeling of guilt to make him on the defensive.

He decided to get straight to the point.

"Frampton ?," he demanded. "Where is he ?

Doyle looked both startled and surprised by the question.

"How should I know ?," he replied, "Safe house somewhere, isn't he ?"

"No, he's not," snapped Bodie. "You collected him from there last night. Where did you take him ?"

Doyle's face showed blank surprise.

"What are you talking about," he said, "I don't understand."

Bodie sighed inwardly. This was going to be difficult. Either his partner did have concussion and maybe amnesia, or he was being cleverly obstructive.

"You came to the safe house, told them Cowley had sent you, and took Frampton away," said Bodie.

"I did nothing of the kind," Doyle protested loudly. He struggled to sit up, but fell back with a yelp of pain.

'"Don't be difficult, Doyle," said Bodie wearily, "Maxwell saw you."

"Maxwell ?," queried Doyle, "He's a fairly new man, isn't he ? He hardly knows me yet."

" I.D., curly hair, checked jacket, and your Capri. What more did he need ?," replied Bodie.

"In case you haven't noticed," snapped Doyle, "Apart from the hair, I have none of these things."

He tried again to ease himself up. This time Bodie helped by pushing a spare pillow behind him.

"Bodie, listen to me," he went on earnestly. "Last night, as I went to my flat, I was set on by a gang of thugs. I lost the battle and must have been unconscious for hours When I came to, I found myself in some old beach hut near the sea. With a struggle I made it to the phone box I spotted, and called you. Then I lost it again, and didn't know any more till I woke up here in this bed."

He looked his friend in the eyes. "That's the truth, Bodie, I swear it."

He relaxed back against the pillows with a grimace of pain. "I don't know who it was, mate," he said wearily, "but it certainly wasn't me."

Bodie suddenly felt the need to sit down. He fetched the chair and put it beside the bed.

He felt rather bad. It was such an obvious answer. An imposter !

Why had none of them thought of that ?

They had all been so quick to think Doyle guilty.

But an imposter, using effects stolen from the man he was pretending to be !

.! know he was identified by two men you'd consider totally reliable, he thought, but on reflection, what had happened was late, dark and hurried. The first man hardly knew Doyle, and the second one only saw his back as he left. And Doyle was so easy to recognise, it was not really surprising that they had been deceived.

He gazed at his friend, who had drifted off to sleep again.

We owe you an apology, mate, he thought to himself, all of us.

He spent the next few hours in a much happier frame of mind, dozing off quite a lot, and waking with a start, to gaze fondly at the curly-haired, pale-faced man in the bed.

I can't wait to take you back, he thought, to let Cowley hear it all, and to get this error cleared up.

As soon as he dared in the morning, he went outside for some privacy, and called Jax at the inn. In a few terse words, he put him in the picture.

"Clear up, and get here as soon as you can, Jax," he ordered, "I can't wait to take him home, but it's a long drive, and the sooner we get going the better."

When he got back into the room, he found Doyle had woken up. The nurse had helped him sit up with a pile of pillows to support him. He was now sporting a large sling to ease his shoulder. He seemed alert and was enjoying a cup of tea He had had his morning allowance of pain-killers.

"Good morning, mate," said Bodie cheerfully, "How do you feel about going home ?.

Doyle smiled. "Yes, please," he said.

But when the doctor came in to check on his patient, he did not like the idea at all. "He's hardly fit to get out of bed," he protested, "let alone travel for hours."

"I'll be all right," said Doyle, "My friends will look after me."

The doctor threw a glare at Bodie. "He said you were their prisoner," he grumbled, "That doesn't sound very friendly."

"Oh, that was a misunderstanding," said Bodie quickly. "It's no longer true." Doyle threw Bodie a quizzical look. He hadn't realised he had been in danger of arrest.

At that point Jax arrived., smiling a relieved greeting to them both.

"I found a garage open, and filled up," he reported.

"Good man," said Bodie, "Now we can get going."

Rather reluctantly, the nurse brought Doyle's clothes and helped him to put them on. She knew how much pain the man was in, and didn't think he was fit to travel.

When he realised that his friend had only his jeans and a grey sweat shirt, Bodie sent Jax to the car for the travel rug from the boot. He draped it carefully round his friend's shoulders, being very careful to avoid touching the sling-clad injury.

It was an odd-looking group that made its slow way to the car. A tall man and a smaller dark one, supporting a very unsteady rug-covered one. The doctor followed them, and handed Bodie some neat medical notes and a small supply of pain-killers.

Bodie eased Doyle into the back of the big car, and slid in beside him. Jax could drive at least the first spell, leaving him free to keep an eye on Doyle who was looking decidedly groggy.

He was rather worried. Had he made a mistake in insisting on leaving. ?

But after a while the smoothness of the car and the comfort of his position made Doyle feel a lot better, and he was able to talk to his partner, giving him more details of what had happened.

"I remember struggling up the path to the phone-box," he said, "and how bad I felt when I saw it had been vandalised. Black paint everywhere, but the phone was working. I only managed to flick off a few flakes to give you a name, before I passed out again."

"Thankfully it was enough for us to find where you were," said Bodie.

The journey was going quite well, as the traffic was minimal. They made a stop at a road-side café. Jax fetched them all hot coffee, and Doyle took his next dose of pain-killers.

Soon after that, lulled by the medication and the movement, he drifted off to sleep and didn't wake until they had reached well towards London.

But he seemed far from well, in spite of his rest, and Bodie could see that he was in considerable discomfort.

As soon as they were within range, Bodie called into base. He decided against going into lengthy explanations over the phone, and merely left a terse message.

"I have Doyle," he said, "but he needs medical attention so I'm taking him straight to St Richard's."

Cowley had been out of the office when the message came through, but received it as soon as he returned. As he wasn't yet 'in the know', he wasn't looking forward to his first interview with the man he feared had let him down.

. But never one to shirk a difficult task that had to be done, he re-donned his hat and coat and set off for the hospital.

He parked his car and entered. A quick query, and he was directed to a room on the second floor.

To his great surprise, as he hurried along the corridor, he was met by the figure of Bodie coming towards him.

Cowley glared at his agent. This was all wrong ! Since Doyle was technically under arrest, playing it by the book, Bodie should have been standing guard over him.

"I need to talk to you, sir," said Bodie urgently. He almost shepherded his boss into a nearby waiting room\\. Fortunately, it was empty. Pushing the door shut behind him, Bodie launched into veritable torrent of words, bringing Cowley up to date on all he had found out.

Cowley listened intently, first crossly, then with a gradual dawning of relief. The bad dream of the last long hours had gone, leaving a very different scenario.

He sank into a nearby seat, for a moment lost for words. Then as Bodie had done hours earlier, he began to berate himself mentally.

Why hadn't he thought of that ? They had all been so quick to accept the obvious conclusion. His expression kept his thoughts well hidden, though.

Recovering, and pulling himself together, he stood up. Very different enquiries would have to be put in hand now. The sooner he returned to the office and got on with it the better. But first, he must do something else.

"How is Doyle ?," he asked.

"Well, he's got a very sore shoulder," replied Bodie, "but Dr. Fenton has made him comfortable and he's had some more pain-killers, so he's not too bad.

"Can we see him ?," asked Cowley, remembering how strictly some hospital visiting rules were enforced.

"Of course," replied Bodie, and led the way along the corridor.

Doyle was sitting up against a pile of pillows, with another cushioning his arm in its large sling. He looked pale and rather tired, but the eyes that met Cowley's were clear and bright, and honest !

Bodie pulled up a couple of chairs for his boss and himself, and they settled down beside the bed.

Cowley asked gently for Doyle to tell his story again and listened intently to every word. Of course, it made such more sense than the previous obvious nightmare that he had been forced to consider.

Bodie suddenly had an idea. "Ray ?," he said eagerly, "we know an awful lot of villains. Did you recognise any of the gang that attacked you ?"

"Unfortunately, no," replied Doyle, "they all had those stocking masks."

A thoughtful look came over his face. "Though, funnily enough, since I've been thinking about it, I've a niggling feeling there was something about one of them, but I can't pin it down."

He turned to his boss. "I should be on my feet tomorrow, sir," he said, "As soon as Simon lets me go, I'll have a look in Records, and see if it jogs my memory."

Then a Sister came in and shooed them out, saying her patient had to rest.

Cowley dismissed Bodie, and hurried back to the office, with a much lighter heart. He had a whole lot of new enquiries to be set in hand, but he would tackle them with enthusiasm now.

The first person he encountered was Murphy. He quickly brought him up to date, noting the pleased look that came over the tall agent's face. He would trust him to gently spread the good news around that Doyle was in the clear. It would be well received, he knew, for Doyle was well-liked. It would lift the solemn gloom which had pervaded the building.

A proper night's sleep did Doyle a lot of good. His shoulder was still sore, but feeling and movement in his arm was greatly improved, almost back to normal.

He had to wait for doctor's rounds, but when Dr. Fenton came, he persuaded his friend that he was fit enough to be discharged, and got his reluctant agreement. The doctor gave in, after exacting a promise from Doyle that he would attend the physiotherapy sessions that he had arranged,

"It'll help the ligaments heal more quickly," he said. He also insisted that his patient kept the sling for a few more days at least.

As Doyle only had the clothes he stood up in, and no money for a taxi, he called into base and asked for assistance. This was readily offered. He got taken to his flat, where he carefully changed his clothes, and got himself a light meal.

Much more himself, he turned up at base in the afternoon, and went to Records, as promised, to see if anything there would help the vague memory that was niggling in his mind. But, unfortunately, even a good hour's work brought him no answer to his problem. Feeling a little tired and sore, he retired to the rest room. A cup of tea and my next dose of pills will help, he thought.

There was only one man in there, sitting at the table, writing up a report. He looked up as Doyle entered, and an odd look came over his face. This surprised Doyle, until he remembered the man's name. It was Maxwell, of course. He must be feeling a little awkward, I suppose, thought Doyle.

"Any chance of a cup of tea ?," he said amiably, as he stepped forward.

Maxwell jumped up and hurried to pour a cup for him. As he handed it to him, he came out with a few mumbled words.

"I feel I owe you an apology, sir," he began awkwardly.

Doyle stopped him with an imperious hand. "Stop worrying," he said firmly, smiling at the uncomfortable man before him "You aren't to blame. You were deceived by a clever imposter, I know."

The relief on the younger man's face was very clear. When the true story had come out, Barton had told him that Doyle wouldn't hold a grudge, and it was true

Just then, several more agents swept in, come to write up their reports at the end of a day's work.

Among them was Bodie, who greeted his partner warmly. "Hi ya, mate," he said cheerily, "How are you feeling ?"

Doyle was surprised at the warmth of greetings that he was met with. He hadn't realised how much the idea of his guilt had upset and unsettled others.

Suddenly, a familiar call echoed down the corridor. "Bodie, Doyle ! My office !." came Cowley's strident voice.

Doyle managed a quick slurp of tea to help his pills go down, as he followed his partner out of the door.

Cowley had some information to impart.

"Doyle, your car has been found, parked in a quiet road in Clapham. Fortunately, it's undamaged. It was securely locked up, and, surprisingly, all your stuff was in the locked boot. Your jacket, your, I.D, your R.T and even your gun ! "

"That's pretty amazing," exclaimed Bodie.

"You won't get it back for a bit," continued Cowley, "for Forensics are going to have a field day with it, in the hope of finding some fingerprints."

"Great," said Doyle, "not that I'm allowed to drive yet, anyway."

He reported his lack of success in Records, saying he'd try again the next day. Cowley then dismissed them both, instructing Bodie to take his mate home and give him any help he needed.

For a few days there was little to add. Doyle's shoulder was improving, thanks to the physiotherapy sessions he had attended as promised. He spent the time either in Records, or out with Bodie. Although he couldn't be active, he could still help with enquiries.

But a few days later, things changed. As they reported in to Cowley's office one morning, Doyle spotted something which surprised him. A chair was pulled up beside the desk, and on it was a very familiar article, a red, black and white checked jacket ! Cowley noticed his reaction, and a slight smile almost crossed his face.

"Yes, Doyle," he said," You can take your belongings back now. Forensics have finished with them."

"Were they any help,?," queried Bodie, as his mate went forward to pick up the jacket, and the articles piled underneath.

"Yes," replied Cowley," they collected a couple of prints, and identified a suspect, one Jim Elson, who has a record for car theft and GBH."

This bit of news brought a reaction from Doyle. "Of course," he exclaimed, "that was what was niggling me."

He hurried to explain. "Years ago, I picked him up several times, but on one particular occasion, I met his brother, Toby Elson, a rather useless heavy-weight boxer, but the main thing about him, was that he constantly reeked of garlic ! That was what I was remembering. So I guess both of them were in the gang that mugged me."

"They shouldn't be difficult to pick up," commented Cowley.

But Doyle hadn't finished. "There's something else ," he added, "Toby Elson was supported and sponsored by Malmerston while he was in the ring ! He's retired from boxing, but I think he works for him now."

Cowley and Bodie exchanged looks. Surely this was significant. They shared the same thought.

Had Malmerston got wind of Frampton's defection, and fearing what he might reveal, had taken drastic action. ?

It was a possibility, though it would certainly be hard to prove.

"I can suggest a few names of Elson's mates," said Doyle. "Probably, they were the ones with them."

"We won't be charging them, naturally," said Cowley, "But we'll pick them up, maybe scare them a little, and see what they can tell us about Frampton."

And that was exactly what happened next. The half-dozen of minor rogues were picked up and taken to the Interrogation Centre. Cowley had made a point of designating the biggest, toughest-looking agents for the task.

So as he entered the room with Doyle and Bodie at his back, it was a very subdued and cowed group before them. Toby Elson was the only one who showed any sign of truculence, but when he saw the tall figure of Bodie behind Doyle, now clearly recovered, his face fell a little.

Cowley walked up and down the line, deliberately scowling fiercely to increase the effect. Then he turned, and stared at them.

"Where did you take Frampton ?," he demanded, barking out the question. To his great surprise, he was met with totally blank looks on all the faces.

"What are you on about ?," asked Toby Elson. "Who is Frampton ?."

"The man you took away from our safe house," snapped Cowley.

"We didn't," came a chorus of voices.

"But Elson," retorted Cowley turning to the smaller brother, "Your prints are on Doyle's car, and that was spotted at the scene."

"I wasn't there," protested Elson, pointing at Doyle "all we were told to do was get him, and his car, and take it to this house in Brixton. He paid us straight away and we split."

"Who paid you?," demanded Cowley.

"Don't know his name," whimpered Elson, daunted by this man's fierceness and the glares he was getting from the two behind him "I've never seen him before."

"Looked a bit like him," interjected Toby Elson, indicating Doyle.

"Ah, our imposter evidently," said Bodie, "but who the heck is he ?."

And that was all they could get from their captives. They all stuck to their story so firmly, that it was evident that it was the truth.

Reluctantly, they turned them loose, extracting only the Brixton address. A raid was made on the house, but it was totally empty. There were no traces of anyone having spent time there. It looked as if someone 'in the know', had used it as a very temporary base. So there was no help there.

For the next little while, Cowley expected daily to be told that Frampton's body had been found somewhere. But it didn't happen. He could not afford men to go searching. Let the police do that.

But the police had no success either. As time went on, search was abandoned and the disappearance became a mystery that might never be solved.

However, as it was no longer urgent C.I.5 business, Cowley dismissed it from his mind, and got his teams onto more important work.

Some weeks later, rumours began to be spread around that the Malmerston criminal empire was failing, and falling apart. Agents were asked to keep their ears open, and report any news that came from their 'snouts.

' It soon became clear that there was some truth in the rumours. Without the help of both Corelli and Frampton, Malmerston was having to do much more himself and he was hopeless at it.

Villains they may have been, but his two erstwhile assistants had possessed a degree of tact and personal charisma, virtues which Malmerston had discarded long ago. His bad-tempered and ill-mannered behaviour was fast alienating most of his contacts. Many of them were even giving up on him, and taking their business elsewhere !

Cowley commented on that aspect of what he had heard as he issued enquiry orders to Bodie and Doyle, concerning a possible new 'gun-runner' taking over Malmerston's previous monopoly.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer bloke," Bodie commented facetiously. It earned him a glare from his boss, but inwardly Cowley agreed with him.

Days later he had news that brought a kind of closure to all that had been going on. He relayed it to Bodie and Doyle as they handed in their reports on their day's enquiries.

"Malmerston is dead," he stated baldly, then responded to their surprised questioning looks. "He was on a flight to Munich, probably to one of his suppliers. The plane ran into some turbulence, and an unfortunate stewardess spilled a drink on him. He went berserk, ranted and raved at the poor girl. Then suddenly, he had a massive heart attack, and that was it."

He glanced at the paper he was holding. "Apparently, they are flying his body home tomorrow, but who will deal with it, I've no idea. The only relatives are pretty distant cousins. However, not our business"

"There will be some changes," commented Doyle.

"Aye," said Cowley, "and C.I 5 will have to do its best to keep on top of them. Enough to keep us very busy, I'm sure," he added as he dismissed them.

Not the most satisfactory ending, he thought to himself. If Malmerston had been guilty of arranging two murders, we never found proof. Nor have we the slightest lead on who impersonated Doyle

. The fingerprints they had found were only on the car, and only Elson's, Nothing to give them the slightest clue to the identity of the man who had used it and impersonated Doyle so effectively.

Then he turned his mind to his ever over-flowing 'in-try'. C.I 5's work will go on, he thought, and this episode will gradually be relegated into the archive files.

He missed one little incident. Probably just as well, as he might have 'disapproved of the levity of it.

Doyle came almost bouncing into the rest room which was quite busy, as it was end of shift time.

"Bodie," he said cheerfully, "Good news. I've just seen the doctor and have been cleared to drive. Joe, from the garage, is bringing my car back to me first thing in the morning."

Bodie smiled, glad to see his mate fully recovered from his nasty injury. Doyle went on, grinning at his friend.

"So if you would be kind enough to take me home one more time, I have a casserole ready to heat up, and some good beers in the 'fridge' ?."

Bodie, ever ready to tease, put on a good act. Throwing up his hands in pretend horror, he let out a shout.

"Help," he exclaimed, "He offered me a drink ! That can't be Doyle ! It must be the imposter !."

Laughter echoed round the small room, as Bodie skilfully dodged the mock attack launched at him by his partner.

What a pair !


End file.
